WHN: The Good Samaritan
by laprofa
Summary: While the team is working on a case involving drugs, Ed discovers that a friend and fellow policeman has been killed in the line of duty. He must balance his responsibility and his determination to find out why his friend was killed. Set late in season 5.
1. Chapter 1

WHN: The Good Samaritan

Chapter 1

The case wasn't going well. A wealthy friend of the commissioner had just lost a son to an overdose and was demanding swift justice. The boy, a college student, had apparently chosen badly and succumbed following a cocaine binge. The drug appeared more and more frequently these days and more often than not seemed to seduce an unusual clientele. Its users tended to be young, educated, and ambitious. Fast trackers, jet setters, young professionals, the beautiful people who could afford a drug that made them feel invincible. Briefly.

He left the apartment where he had conducted another fruitless interview. The boy died, his father raged, the commissioner squirmed, and the Chief's team prowled the city searching for anything related to the case. So far, no one saw anything, no one heard anything, and no one was saying anything. It seemed that as more money flowed with the drugs, more layers of secrecy and violence protected the men whose arrests would actually accomplish something.

By nature, Ed was a realist but not a pessimist, but he had spent the day chasing leads that went nowhere and now found himself feeling tired and frustrated. He opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat with dreams of a shower, a scotch, and a steak beginning to invade his thoughts. He sighed. His next destination, the office, probably meant that his evening would more likely consist of chili, debriefing, strategy sessions, and coffee. He fastened his seat belt and turned the key.

He saw the black sedan approaching in his rear view mirror. As it pulled alongside, he saw Larry Carr lean out of the window and felt a surge of irritation. What now?

"Hey, Ed," Larry said. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by what? Concern? Sympathy? Not from Larry Carr.

"Larry," he acknowledged with a half growl. The man set his teeth on edge.

"Sorry to hear about your buddy Bill. Really, man. He seemed like a good guy."

"My buddy Bill? Seemed? What are you talking about, Larry?" Ed's tired brain couldn't make sense of the information. Bill? Bill who? And there was always a chance that this was one of Larry's ridiculous "gotcha!" moments.

"Bill Eller. I just heard. He was shot and killed a little while ago. You didn't know?"

"Bill? He's dead? How?" Ed fumbled with the words. This made no sense. He'd only been on the force a few months after having saved Ed's life during a robbery. In turn, Ed, with the Chief's help, had exonerated Bill of murder charges. After his discharge, Bill had decided to try police work. He had caught the attention of some of his superiors because of his intelligence, steadiness, and military experience. Now he was gone. A bitter taste rose in Ed's throat.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, Ed," Larry repeated, "He seemed like a good guy."

Ed stared at Larry, questions that Larry couldn't answer tumbling through his head. He nodded mutely and Larry pulled off. He hesitated for a moment as he schooled his expression, burying the torrent of emotions behind his professional mask. Yet again. He put the car in gear and headed for the office, and, he hoped, answers.

His logical mind told him that there was no reason for guilt, but it crept in anyway. If they had not met, if Ed had not insisted on helping Bill beat the charges, if Bill hadn't been so close to discharge, if. He may have beaten the charges. He might still be alive. Ed, on the other hand, would most likely not.

Hand on the nob, Ed paused for a moment before he entered the office, took a deep breath, and opened the door.. The Chief sat at the table, file in hand, scowling. Ed thought his expression softened ever so slightly as he looked up. He knew. Ed glanced at Fran, whose face as always clearly broadcast her mood. Ed glanced away quickly, unable to deal with raw emotion just now. Mark busied himself in the kitchen, a concerned and guarded expression on his face. He nodded hello but said nothing and returned quickly to his task, much to Ed's relief.

"Ed," the Chief began, but Ed cut him off.

"I know. Do you know what happened?"

"Some of it. Bill and his partner were on foot checking out an alley in the warehouse district. Bill was shot first and died instantly, or close to it. His partner was hit by a bullet to his temple. He's unconscious."

"Will he live?" Ironside arched an eyebrow at his sergeant, who, while direct, was seldom so blunt.

"It's too soon to tell. He's in critical condition. They're to keep me posted on his condition."

"Pass it along, please." Ed suddenly felt the need to get out of there, to be alone, to sort through this mess without people walking on eggshells around him. He turned to leave.

"Ed!" the Chief called sharply. "The last time I checked, you were following up some leads for me! What did you find out, Sergeant?"

"Nothing, Chief. Nothing that will help. The Cochran kid showed up with the cocaine, a lot of it, shared it with ten or twelve of his closest fraternity friends, began to convulse, and died. No one else showed symptoms. If anyone knows anything about his use or his source, they aren't talking. Do you need me for anything?"

"No, Ed, go home. We will try again tomorrow. And Ed," he continued, a bit more gently, "anger, grief, frustration, fine. Just no guilt." His eyes met Ed's.

"Okay, Chief. Later!" he called to Mark and Fran.

"Bye."

"Good night, Ed."

"I did what you asked," Fran said as the door closed. "And he's not 'just fine' and he's not going home and I think he could use some support right now!"

"He is a grown man who has suddenly lost a friend and colleague. He needs space and time to come to terms with the tragic absurdity that a man can survive combat tours and beat a murder charge just to end up dead on a city street. If he wants to share that time and space, he knows where we are and how to reach us. And of course he's not going home. He'll probably go to the crime scene or drive around or go sit in a bar somewhere and have a beer. He'll go to where he thinks he needs to be. What he doesn't need is anyone hovering around him going on about FEELINGS!" The Chief's exasperation wound down and he blew out a breath. Fran recoiled a bit but let it go.

"Thank you for doing it my way, Fran." She smiled slightly and touched his arm. Mark came in with a round of bourbon, a deck of cards, and pretzels.

"I got a quarter on the crime scene," he said as he set down the drinks.

"No takers!" said Fran and the chief simultaneously. They divided the pretzels and dealt the cards.

The crew at the crime scene was winding down by the time Ed arrived. The alley was L-shaped and fairly shallow. Several storefronts had garbage disposal containers and service entries in the recessed area, creating obstacles and shadows, easy hiding places, but there was only one way out. After dark, most of the small businesses closed down. Some of the warehouses in the area had some traffic at odd times, but the alley had very few visitors even during regular business hours. There had been some reports of pairs or small groups in jackets, hats, and glasses slipping into the entrance and disappearing before reappearing a few minutes later. Most were young, students furtively slipping into the alley and emerging soon after, heads down, hands jammed in pockets.

In response to the business owners' concerns that this kind of activity might discourage their clients, the police had made this alley and several other similar places the subjects of random periodic patrols, hoping to put an end to whatever informal business might have been conducted there. So far, there had been no arrests.

They had found three .22 caliber casings under a fire escape deep in the alley. Chalk outlines showing the fallen officers' locations were drawn at the corner of the L. It appeared that they had rounded the corner and gone no further.

"Find any slugs?" Ed asked the lead detective.

"You on the case?" He asked in response.

"No, not officially." Ed kept his tone neutral. The other man gave a start of realization.

"Eller. Bill Eller. He was a friend of yours, right?"

"Yeah, he was." Ed waited for the next comment, unsure what attitude the man, a Detective Henderson, would take. Not everyone appreciated the Chief's operating outside the normal chain of command and sometimes seeming unaffected by the normal procedures, pressures, and scrutiny. Few people had any idea what that autonomy cost, and fewer still would have paid the price, but there was jealousy often enough anyway. Ed usually ignored the caustic comments. There was nothing to be gained by dignifying them, but they irritated him nonetheless. He braced himself.

"I'm sorry about your friend. I worked with him a couple of times. He never let me down. Good man." Henderson met his eyes. "I'll be happy to tell you what I've found out."

The two officers had let dispatch know that they would be exiting the car to check the alley about 4 PM. When they failed to respond to a disturbance call in the area at 4:20, dispatch sent another unit to the scene, where they found Officer Eller dead and Officer Lewis, his partner, bleeding from his left temple and unconscious. Eller's gun was never drawn, while Lewis' lay near his body never having been fired. The bullet that hit him had not penetrated his skull, but he did not respond to attempts to awaken him. The hospital scheduled tests to try and assess the damage and establish a prognosis, but no one had heard anything except that he was in critical condition and still unconscious, but alive.

The team at the scene had interviewed everyone they could find, but had no witnesses at this point. They would canvass the area tomorrow and continue to look for clues. They had indeed found two slugs in the wall behind the chalk outlines, one with blood on it, but the other clean. They would be tested against the casings that they had found. Ed thanked the detective, mentally filing his name away to share with Ironside, and agreed to share anything he might find relevant to the case. He returned to his car and finally headed home.

The trip home was uneventful. Ed turned the information over in his mind. This was not a hit. Whoever shot Bill was as surprised to see him as Bill was to actually find someone back there. The shooter had walked past Lewis and his gun to leave the alley. Either the shooter thought Lewis was already dead or refused to execute him to eliminate a potential witness. An experienced criminal would not have hesitated to check on and finish the business. Ed's instincts told him that this was the act of an inexperienced shooter, perhaps panicked, who fled the scene and was likely hiding out fairly close by. He uttered a quick prayer that Lewis would survive and that Bill had found peace, and parked the car.

The phone was ringing as he entered the apartment. He hurried over and snatched the receiver from the cradle. Henderson? A break in the case already? News about Lewis?

"Brown!" He answered tersely, but the voice that greeted him was Fran's. Why was she calling so late? The Chief, maybe, okay frequently enough, Mark occasionally, but Fran never called this late.

"Ed?" she began, sounding both hesitant and relieved.

"Is there something wrong with the Chief?" he demanded, a little curtly. He hoped not, but why the hell else would someone be calling him at one AM?

"No, I was worried about you," she countered a little testily herself. Sometimes the right hand man could be a bit...overbearing, abrupt, inconsiderate? "I wanted to make sure you were all right! Apparently, you're fine. Sorry I bothered you."

"Fran, I'm fine. Thanks for calling. I appreciate your concern, but I'm a little off balance right now. Get some sleep, and I'll see you bright and early." And way too soon now.

"Okay, you too. I understand." She sounded somewhat mollified at least. Thank God. When she was upset, the whole office felt the ripples. She was smart and diligent, and she meant well. The seasoning would come, at a price, of course. Why she felt it necessary to constantly check on him, Mark, and the Chief, he would never understand. He allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he should turn the tables on her sometime soon. Would she appreciate the gesture, or bristle at the perceived nursemaiding?

He shook his head. It was ridiculous that he even thought of something so trivial when he was investigating two deaths. He went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The night's sleep, however brief, had been dreamless and deep. He felt less edgy as he approached the office, more focused, more optimistic that something would break and he would be able to stop spinning his wheels.

He wanted answers, justice. It was the only thing he could do now for Bill, and having time to look meant keeping the Chief happy with progress in the Cochran case. It was going to be a long day, but at this point, the last thing he needed was time on his hands. He strode quickly down the ramp. Mark greeted him at the bottom with a cup of coffee and a grin.

"Mornin','" he said. "You look better." Ed took the coffee gratefully and walked toward the table, where his boss was pushing breakfast around on his plate.

"Better than what?" Ed asked.

"Better than that guy that blew through here yesterday afternoon. That cat was tied up tight. Good to have you back."

"Thanks," Ed replied. "Fran in yet?"

"Right behind you," Mark commented as the door opened again. Fran's heels clicked quickly down the ramp toward Mark.

"Good morning, everybody," she said cheerfully, accepting a cup of coffee and moving toward the table. The Chief looked up from his breakfast and signaled that he was finished. Mark cleared the dishes and headed for the kitchen.

"Some's better than none, I guess. Want anything else, Chief?" he asked over his shoulder. The Chief shook his head.

"Need a hand?" Fran called.

"No, thanks, Fran, I got this." Mark returned. "Unless you can help me guess what he's willing to eat tomorrow morning. Looks like I wasn't even half right today." He looked at the nearly full plate. Fran smiled and shook her head. "No, I am a police officer, not a psychic. And I don't envy you there."

Mark grunted. "Thanks a lot, lady. And by the way, if you need help with your big case today, don't call me. I'll be busy reading the coffee grounds!"

"And studying for your midterm!" bellowed Ironside.

"And studying for my midterm," said Mark.

"Well, now that we've all gotten our coffee and morning pleasantries out of the way, perhaps we could get down to some work," Ironside grumbled.

"Sure, Chief."

"Right, Chief. Any news this morning?"

"There is always news, Ed. Could you be more specific?" came the Chief's response.

"Okay, since I was the last one chasing information on the Cochran case, I'll assume there's nothing new there. Has Detective Henderson called?"

"Henderson? No," the Chief said as he reached for some files. "Ed, I want you to go back over to the university and talk to the fraternity brothers. Someone knows something, someone was more than likely with Cochran when he made the buy. These boys tend to do things, everything, in clumps. Try to divide and conquer. We have to be close to a break in the case!" He paused to take a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Mark, if I have to wake up to battery acid and bitterroot, can it at least be hot?"

"I'll make some more, Chief." Mark came out of his room.

"Never mind, Mark, go back to your books."

"Yeah, but..." young man started to interject. The Chief cut him off.

"The most important thing you can do right now is to be ready for that test. Besides, we won't be around long enough to drink any. Fran, go get any information you can find remotely related to cocaine investigations, trials, and convictions. Any known dealers. I want to know as much as you can get about them, especially any commonalities."

"Right, the works. On it, Chief. Where will you be?" Fran asked.

"Visiting a grieving father whose son was as pure as the driven snow but who nevertheless seems to have died of overexposure to it." He began to wheel himself up the ramp. Ed stepped behind as Fran opened the door. After he passed, Ed hesitated and ducked back into the office. Ironside paused and watched him head for the phone.

"Ed?"

"Quick call, Chief," he explained.

"I understand, up to a point, that is. Don't let where you want to be seduce you from where you need to be. There is a team working that case. You are working mine," he said firmly, turned, and wheeled toward the elevator without waiting for a response. Ed picked up the receiver and dialed.

"Detective Henderson, please. This is Sgt. Brown."

Henderson had no news about the case except that the injured officer, Lewis, had stabilized and was showing signs of waking up. Henderson was planning to try and see him late afternoon and offered Ed the chance to join him. Ed agreed to be there if at all possible, but was mindful that the Cochran case had to come first. At least the time constraint would be incentive to finish the interviews quickly. Dealing with frat boys in such serious situations was usually a nightmare. Spoiled young men, mostly moneyed, who indulged adolescent whims without fear of consequence. Boys will be boys, especially when they are allowed to wander in like-minded packs running interference for each other, usually with parents more than willing to help them keep consequences at bay. Investigations like this one were rarely straightforward and never easy.

His attention returned to Det. Henderson. The neighborhood interviews had yielded very little. A boy of about sixteen or seventeen had dashed past one if the storefronts and, because he was looking behind him, slammed into a customer. He lost the hat, exposing longish, curly, light brown hair, and kept running. He might have come from the alley or he might not, but he came from that direction at roughly the right time. No one saw where he went, but they had bagged the hat as potential evidence just in case. Alone, it wasn't much, but maybe it would support information discovered later on. He thanked the detective and said that he hoped to see him later in the afternoon.

The fraternity house was a two-story older frame house near the edge of campus. When Ed arrived, there were three guys in the house cleaning up the wreckage from the evening before: trash, beer cans and bottles, pizza boxes, a few liquor bottles, some plastic cups, and the odd article of clothing. One boy was cleaning the lawn, another was just inside in the huge main room, and the other two were either in the back yard or other inner parts of the house, which smelled vaguely of vomit and strongly of stale beer. Ed recognized the brother in the front yard and approached him first.

"Hey, Randy, can I talk to you for a moment?" Randy scowled.

"Okay," he replied finally.

"I wanted to see if you remembered anything else from Friday night. Who was there?"

Ed asked. Randy squirmed nervously, glancing at the house frequently.

"Mike, Trey, me, Justin, JC, Austin, and Rob, and a whole bunch of guys I had never seen before. Look, I already told you this. Nothing has changed." Another nervous glance. An unfamiliar boy was in the doorway, watching hostilely. Ed vaguely heard him call upstairs.

"Did the guys you had never seen before have faces? Names?" Randy shrugged and let out a ragged breath.

"Randy, look at me," Ed ordered, "You're hiding something. Someone knows who JC bought the drugs from. I think you know. Now we can discuss this here and now, or I can take you downtown and talk to you there. Then you can explain what you did or didn't say once you get back from interrogation. We have to find out who caused JC's death and how. They told you cocaine was harmless, didn't they, that you'd feel like you could do anything and be fine in a few minutes? Do you still believe it?" The boy turned whiter by the moment. "Did they threaten you? Randy, JC deserves the truth. We need to get whoever sold him that junk off the streets."

Randy did not respond. He simply stared at Ed, beads of sweat beginning to form on his lip and brow. Ed was so intent on Randy that he did not know the other boys were there until one of them grabbed him from behind as the other two, who had positioned themselves at his side, grabbed his arms. Ed turned toward the first boy sharply and stepped quickly toward his body, twisting his arms free as the boy threw a wild punch that glanced off of Ed's cheek. Ed in turn sent a couple of quick jabs into the boy's stomach before the boy on his right grabbed his arm. The boy was slight, while his counterpart on the other side was shorter but heavier than Ed. Ed used the smaller boy's grip on his arm to guide him to the middle of the melee then push him into his heavier counterpart. The boys staggered backward, giving Ed the time he needed to draw his gun. Everyone froze.

"All right, guys. Fun's over. Had enough?" Ed wiped his mouth.

"For now," said his original attacker. "But we're not done."

"You're right. We're just getting started. Face down, hands out front. Now!" Ed ordered.

"You can't do that to us," the smallest kid whined.

"What can't I do?"

"Treat us like common criminals! Do you know who my dad is?" number one asked.

"No. Why don't you go ahead and tell me so I know what to call him when he comes to post your bail." He hadn't intended to say it out loud, but didn't regret it much either. Kids with every advantage who chose to act like punks. He would never understand.

He called for backup to take the boys in.

Finally, other officers arrived and he turned the boys over to them. He called the Chief and succinctly explained what had happened.

"Chief, all of these boys are covering something up. Randy knows something specifically about the party, but he's terrified. I think a little pressure there will yield something useful. It's more than we have."

"Okay, Ed, We'll handle the booking and the interrogation. You stay with the fraternity, but Ed, I want Fran with you. Another set of eyes and ears might help wrap things up here."

"Chief, I'm fine. Fran's busy and I have this under control," Ed protested.

"No argument, Sergeant, my mind is made up. It's deeper than the fraternity, I can feel it, although there are answers there that we need. The stakes are much higher than I thought. They obviously already consider you something of a threat, and Fran could use the exposure. She can be there in twenty minutes."

"Okay, Chief. You're the boss, but I think it would be more efficient if we had independent tasks." Ed didn't mention his meeting with Henderson this afternoon at the hospital. He WOULD be quicker alone, and he wasn't sure that Fran was willing to permit his little side trip without protest. Oh, well, she was coming, they would do their jobs to the best of their ability as quickly as they could, he WAS meeting Henderson at the hospital, and Fran would do what she felt she had to do. Wasn't she the one talking about feelings anyway? Every fiber in his being was telling him that he had to be at that hospital, fallout be damned. Something was stirring in his gut about both cases that he could in no way describe, something shapeless that could coalesce into something concrete if he persevered with it and vanish like the mist if he let it go. Deep down, he knew that the Chief already knew most or all of this anyway. He reviewed his contact list and waited for Fran to arrive.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

They went to the registrar's office to pick up schedules for the other boys on their list. The receptionist there was efficient but decidedly cool. Apparently she knew who all of the kids' fathers were, and thought more of them than she did a random detective in a non-descript suit.

One by one, he and Fran tracked the kids down and talked to them. They were evasive and nervous, eyes darting everywhere as they gave short, repetitive answers to the detectives' questions. Ed was on his guard, but there were no more incidents like the one at the fraternity house. There was, again, little progress in the case.

They had interviewed most of the boys, with two exceptions, when Ed called Det. Henderson. Lewis was awake, but weak. Henderson was heading to the hospital in about an hour. Ed agreed to meet him there.

"Bill's case?" Fran asked.

"Yeah. The other officer is conscious and Henderson is heading over there," Ed replied.

"And you're going to meet him there." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"We have two more people to talk to," she said. "Does the Chief know you're meeting Henderson?"

"No," Ed said, "but I don't intend to keep it from him." Ed clenched his jaw.

"Okay," Fran huffed, "you go do what you have to do, and I'll finish up here." Ed rolled his eyes.

"Absolutely not. Didn't you hear what happened this morning?" he asked impatiently.

"Do you think I can't handle myself?" she countered angrily. She sounded so young. He could hear the same indignation in her voice that he had felt so many times early in his career. This one had a mouth on her, though. Most of the time, he had tried to cover his frustration with stoicism. Steady Eddie. He smiled, unintentionally infuriating her.

"Is it because I'm a woman? Because I'm young? Because no one can do what Ed Brown can do? Why don't you think I can do this alone?" She tried valiantly to eliminate everything but fury from her voice, but her eyes began to moisten and her voice shook slightly. Time was slipping away.

"Fran," he began, gently. He stepped toward her.

"Leave me alone, you condescending chauvinist!" she shouted.

"Fran," he repeated.

"I mean it! You are impossible!"

"Fran! Listen, please," he shouted. She paused. "Fran, stop, please. It isn't you. He doesn't want me alone, either, remember? You're still a bit green…"

"Ed Brown, how dare you…" she exclaimed in a near shriek.

"Wait a minute! Don't take offense! How long have you been working for the Chief? Weeks? You think I was never green, that I somehow skipped my rookie year? I remember how it felt so clearly, being on the job for a few months, feeling like you're on the jv working your butt off with no acknowledgement and itching to play with the big boys. You're not jv, Fran." She gaped at him and wiped her eyes. "You've proven yourself. To the Chief. To me."

She looked at him, surprised.

"Really?"

"Really."

"If I find out you're buttering me up to get me to come along, you WILL pay. Hell hath no fury like a woman manipulated." She glared at him fiercely to emphasize her point.

"I swear I'm telling the truth. When have you known me to lie?" He valued his integrity above almost all else, but still felt a bit vulnerable with this one.

"Not yet, but there have been some questionably convenient truths at times," she observed. Was she baiting him? Tick tock. He decided to let it go. He slid into his seat.

"Whatever. Get in," he opened the door from the driver's side. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "Please?" he added, and she sat down primly.

"Buckle up," he said as he started the car.

"Call the Chief," she retorted. He checked his watch and reached for the radio. Fran smiled.

They arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes behind Henderson. He was interviewing Lewis when they arrived. They approached his room, but were intercepted by Lewis' doctor before they could enter. They introduced themselves, but the doctor motioned for them to stop.

"I know who you are and I know why you are here. I'm sorry, I can't let you in. Detective Henderson is with him right now, and I'm about to kick him out. Officer Lewis' condition is extremely serious and he needs uninterrupted rest if that is to change."

"Doctor, this is a murder investigation. I may have some angles that Detective Henderson doesn't know about yet," Ed insisted. Although he had been impressed by what he had seen of Henderson so far, he desperately wanted to talk to Lewis himself. The Chief had understood his determination to be at the hospital, but had been less than happy about the unfinished business at the university. The Commissioner must be pressing for results.

"No Sergeant, I'm sorry. Not tonight. I don't like some of the readings I'm getting and I won't risk pushing him any further. Call tomorrow and we will try to get you in then. Call first, though." And with that, the doctor pushed past him and hurried down the corridor. Fran looked at him sympathetically and sat down to wait for Henderson to emerge. A few minutes later, he did.

"Sergeant," he said by way of greeting. He looked drained.

"Detective Henderson. This is my partner, Officer Fran Belding." That felt and sounded a little odd, but he felt that she needed to hear it just now. She schooled her reaction, but he thought he saw her expression brighten a little. Better get used to it, because, effectively, they were partners.

"Officer Belding," he greeted her warmly. She flashed a businesslike smile in response.

"Detective." He dialed back the warmth slightly. He had heard about this one. Spunky, ambitious. Definitely attractive. He shook off the reverie to find Brown and the girl regarding him coolly. He cleared his throat.

"What do you have? They wouldn't let me in. Sorry I couldn't back you up," Ed explained.

Henderson shared what Lewis had told him. They had entered the alley expecting to find it empty as usual, but when Bill, who was a few feet ahead of his partner, rounded the corner, Lewis heard a shout quickly followed by a shot. Lewis fumbled with his gun and headed for cover a few steps away but never reached it. A boy darted past him out of the alley. He appeared to be fifteen or sixteen, and his face registered terror. He stepped toward the boy as another loud pop issued from the back of the alley, though he couldn't see anyone. There was another pop just as something slammed into the side of his head and he lost consciousness.

He had described a boy, five seven or eight, light brown collar length hair curling out if his baseball cap, blue eyes, pale, a handsome kid, well dressed.

"Anything specific enough for a sketch?" Ed asked.

"It's vague," Henderson answered, "but it's better than nothing for now. You got anything else?"

"No, I've been tied up at the university with the Cochrane case. The Chief really wants some answers yesterday. They've been hard to come by, though."

"I'll send a copy of the sketch over in the morning. Good luck with the case. Officer Belding," he acknowledged.

"Detective Henderson," she responded.

"Officer Belding," Ed began, "ready to go to college?"

"Can't wait," Fran replied.

It was dusk when they pulled onto the campus. They went to the boys' dorms and to the fraternity house, but the boys were not there. They checked the dining hall, the gym, the library, and the student union without success. No one had seen them, no one knew where they could be. They agreed that their targets were probably hiding out, avoiding them. By the time they got to the fraternity house, several hours had passed and they were tired. Several boys had gathered at the house, none of whom were on the list, and the tension was thick. Ed and Fran divided the occupants, seeking their versions of events they hadn't witnessed and digging for information on the missing boys. They painstakingly recorded information from each interview, noting its source, and left late in the evening. Ed called the Chief from the car, outlining the events of the last few hours.

"Back to the barn?" Ed asked, yawning.

"I suppose."

"If you want me to, I can take you home. Your apartment's not far. Then the last snake in the garden can come and pick you up in the morning."

Fran groaned, "Will you just let that go, please? Yes, if you don't mind. I just want to be home. Now. An hour ago."

"I understand, and no, I don't mind. I guess we both have a few things we just need to let go."

"Deal," she declared.

Pulling out of the university's entrance gate, they met a car, a gray sedan with dark tinted windows. Luxury sedan, better befitting a businessman than a student. Probably a parent bringing a kid back after a late dinner. Ed's stomach growled. Great, he thought, frustrated, tired, and hungry.

"Are you hungry?" he asked Fran.

"Yes, but I think I just want to go home," she replied with a stifled yawn.

"Home it is, m'lady."

Just out of sight, the sedan stopped in front of the fraternity house. Two young men emerged from the back seat.

"Thanks, man," the first boy said. "Not sure what this is about, but sticking it to the cops is kinda fun."

"Yeah, gracias, Carlos," added the second boy.

"Thank you for playing, gentlemen. If we have them chasing the two of you, they can't be doing more important things. Here is a little token of my appreciation." The man spoke lightly accented, carefully enunciated English. He handed a small vial to each boy.

"Awesome!" said the first boy. "Whatever you need us to do, man! Anytime!"

"Yeah, anytime!" echoed his friend. Carlos' window rose as the boys clapped each other on the back.

"Tonight?" the first one asked.

"Yeah, tonight! No sleeping tonight, Paul!" said his friend.

"We sharing?" asked Paul.

"NO!" came the reply. They entered the front door. The car pulled away.

Ed and Fran drove through the quiet, nearly empty streets. They arrived at Fran's building and parked in front, where Ed exited quickly and opened the door for Fran. She smirked.

"What's this?" she asked.

"You're off duty, Miss Belding, or should be. Do you mind?"

"No, I don't think I do. You have a reputation as a gentleman, among other things. Now I guess I know." She took his hand and rose from her seat. "Thank you, Sergeant. For everything."

"Good night. See you in the morning. Eight?"

"Eight."

He smiled as he went back to the driver's side and slid into his seat. It had been another frustrating day with little progress, but they had notes that he was sure would yield something they could go on, they had the inner circle on the move, and Randy had been stuck in The Little Room with the Chief. It was only a matter of time before something important broke loose. And Bill's case had a witness and a face.

Officer Thomas Lewis slept peacefully, the many monitors registering his vital signs. Around 4 AM, he sat upright, gasping and panicked, then collapsed unconscious on his bed. His monitor alarm shrieked until the duty nurse dashed into the room. She paged the doctor and ordered a crash cart. Blood began to pour from his nose and trickle from his left ear. At 4:15, they stopped resuscitation efforts and pronounced him dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As promised, Ed pulled up in front of Fran's apartment a few minutes before eight. As agreed, Fran emerged from the front door at 7:59. She opened the door and sat down.

"Good morning!" she said, cheerfully. The late evening seemingly had not affected her. Ed, on the other hand, was awake and functioning but not terribly happy about it yet. This was still yet another normally early morning after very late nights that he had pulled, and it was starting to affect his mood.

"Morning," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"Wanna stop for coffee on the way in? On me. It looks like you could use it," Fran said, sympathetically.

"What, and ruin my taste for Mark's for the foreseeable future? No, thanks, Fran. We'll be in soon enough," he said as he pulled away from the curb. Truthfully, he was eager start sifting through all of the information they had gathered and find out if the Chief had anything new from his meeting with Cochran's father. They said little else during the drive to the office, but the silence was companionable enough. Finally, they entered the garage and took the elevator to the Chief's office.

"Morning, Chief," Fran called. Ed simply nodded. Ironside's face was grim. He did not return Fran's greeting.

"Chief?" she asked, uneasy. "What happened?"

"Officer Lewis died of what appears to be a massive brain bleed this morning. They will do an autopsy later today." Ed stared at Ironside, his frustration evident.

"Any evidence of foul play?" Ed asked, carefully.

"Aside from having been shot initially, no. Looks like aftereffects from the initial injury rather than another attack"

"So now all we have is his rough sketch and his description of the events in that alley," Ed said. "And another dead cop." Ed felt sick. Lewis had a beautiful young wife and three small kids that he never ceased to brag about. Ed knew well the pain of that kind of loss. Too well. He shuddered slightly.

"Are we on the case now?" Ed asked.

"No, Ed! Homicide has this case, and we have the Cochran death to solve. Or had you forgotten?" the Chief asked sarcastically.

"How could I forget, Chief? If I hadn't been chasing all over campus looking for kids that weren't there, I might have been able to talk to Lewis myself. Now that's not going to happen, is it?"

"Ed…" the Chief began.

"We're putting all of our energy into a case where rich boys choose to gamble with drugs, while two good cops are lying on slabs because they were doing their jobs," Ed spat bitterly.

"Ed," the Chief interjected. "Ed!"

"WHAT!" he growled, fighting the anger rising in his gut. "Sorry, Chief, it's just…I'm sorry."

"'Looking for kids that weren't there.' Why did you say that?" the Chief demanded. Ed took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"It's the only thing that makes any sense. We scoured the campus. It wasn't that we were one step behind, it's like they vanished for several hours. It can't be coincidence that we spent our time and energy on these guys not only not to find them, but not to hear anything at all about them. That campus is a fishbowl, especially fraternity row, and someone would have seen them under normal circumstances. The whole campus can't be in on this, Chief. I think somebody got those boys out of there." The Chief nodded, considering the possibility.

"What did you learn from the boys at the station yesterday?" Ed asked.

"That they don't like policemen and aren't terribly cooperative. The three that tried to attack you would rather face assault charges than talk. Their fathers will hire very good attorneys and consequences will be minimal. They said that they felt that you were harassing Randy and that that they needed to protect him."

"Great. They will at least have their wrists slapped, won't they?" Ed asked. "Well, what did you get from Randy?"

"He was at the party, there was this new stuff there that everybody was trying, and they wanted him to try it, too. So he did, but , according to him, not much, then he had too much to drink and passed out. He woke up back in the fraternity house," The Chief related. "'Try it.' He's done much more than try it. He's nervous, shaky, can't concentrate, and doesn't seem to remember much. I had Carl put one of his younger guys on him. Would you like to guess where he went within minutes of leaving here?"

"Dealer?" Ed asked.

"Sergeant Brown, are you psychic?" Ironside asked. Ed smiled slightly. "They brought him and the dealer in and booked him for possession and the seller for distribution. Randy has a hearing today. The word is that his father will post his bail as soon as he can and then Randy is off to a very expensive rehab facility."

"With the rehab and first offense, he probably won't do any time," Ed surmised.

"No," the Chief answered. "Should he?" Ed didn't answer. What had the boy actually done? Whom had he hurt? Every day, Ed saw people paying for their stupidity. The boy's stupidity was utterly without malice.

"I don't know. But we could lock up half of this city, I think, if we take a hard line with kids like Randy. That doesn't sound like a very practical solution to the problem."

At that moment, the phone rang. Ed snatched the phone from the cradle.

"Sergeant Brown, Chief Ironside's office."

"Sergeant, the Chief asked us to let him know if anything unusual happened at the university," said the hesitant voice on the other end of the line.

"Has it?" Ed queried.

"Yes, Sergeant. A few minutes ago, an ambulance was dispatched to the Delta Sigma Pi house at the university. Cocaine overdose. A kid named Paul Hughes."

"Alive?" Ed asked.

"For now," the caller responded. "But it doesn't look good." Ed's frown deepened as the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach intensified. Paul Hughes was one of the kids they had been unable to find the day before. Ed slowly returned the receiver to the cradle.

"What's wrong?" Fran asked.

"Paul Hughes. He OD'd."

"Dead?" asked the Chief.

"No, he's at the hospital. They aren't optimistic."

"What was the name of the other boy that you couldn't track down yesterday?" Ironside demanded.

"Jordan…." He searched his memory, "Jordan Taylor!" He grabbed his coat.

"Find him!" thundered Ironside.

"Already on it, Chief!" Ed called over his shoulder. His long legs carried him quickly up the ramp and out the door. Mark watched him go.

"Want me to go with him?" Mark asked.

"No, Mark, we're going downtown to talk to the dealer that was busted with the boy. Up until now, that one has clammed up and conveniently seems to speak very little English. Fran, first I want you to come with us, and then I'm going to need the information I pulled you away from yesterday. Cocaine busts, dealers, sources, anything you can find. Especially newer players in the game"

"Sure, Chief. Right away." She grabbed her purse and notebook and walked quickly to the door, the Chief and Mark close behind.

Ed pulled in front of the now all too familiar fraternity house, surveyed the scene, and got out of the car. Apparently, most of the groggy boys who had awakened when the ambulance arrived to transport Paul Hughes had given up on an early morning and gone back to bed. The upperclassmen had by now figured out how to schedule classes so that they had Fridays free, and the underclassmen had not yet figured out the price for cutting.

One boy that had not gone back to bed was Jordan Taylor. He sat in the living room of the frat house and twisted his shaky hands. He seemed frightened, edgy. When he saw Ed approach, he started to rise from the sofa, but then he sat back down. He sniffed nervously.

"Jordan Taylor?" Ed asked as he approached. The boy twisted slightly but then turned toward Ed and met his eyes.

"Yeah, that's me," he sighed. "You here to arrest me?" He swallowed hard. "I didn't do anything."

"Should I be?" Ed asked. "A blood test would answer that question rather easily, don't you think?" The young man blanched. That answered one of Ed's questions, because obviously, the Hughes kid had not been flying solo last night.

"Actually, Jordan, I need information," Ed finally continued.

"About Paul," Jordan stated.

"Yes, about Paul," Ed confirmed.

"He's still alive?" the boy's voice broke slightly.

"I haven't heard anything different," Ed told the boy, gently. "But you know that he's not doing well."

"Yeah," the Jordan said softly. "It looked so much like JC's OD. I thought he was a goner for sure."

"You were there when JC OD'd, too?" Ed asked. "What happened? From the beginning, please."

"Yeah, I was there. It was a college kid's dream turned nightmare. We were all having a great time, the music, the girls, the lines. There seemed to be no end to it. I didn't think you could feel that good, but then JC started convulsing. It didn't last long. Then the seizure stopped, just kind of tapered off, and he started vomiting, and then he was still and his eyes were open. He didn't move again." Jordan shuddered at the memory and shook his head, trying to clear it. 'He was breathing though, kinda loud."

"Then what happened?" Ed persisted.

"We were all kind of shocked and just staring. We couldn't believe it, you know?" Jordan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Carlos looked really angry. He told us to put JC in the car. So we put him in the back seat"

"Carlos?" Ed inquired. "What can you tell me about him? Is he a student?"

"No, he's a guy, older, a businessman instead of a student, I think, that just is friends of some of the upperclassmen. They invite him to a lot of their parties. Really hip, cool, sophisticated. Anyway, he gets into the car with us and we drive JC to the hospital. I don't know why. I was pretty sure he was already dead. But if there was a chance, I wanted JC to have it.' Jordan squirmed uneasily.

"Where was the party?"

"Carlos works at some offices downtown. He took us there. Half of us rode with him and the other half rode with Mike. He's a jock who doesn't mess with anything that will compromise the purity of the temple that is his body, but he loves a good time, so he drives a lot. Charges us a dollar apiece."

"Would you recognize the office?" Ed asked.

"Maybe, yeah. We were drinking and doing a few lines before we got there. I wasn't paying a lot of attention," the boy admitted.

"Why JC, Jordan? What was he doing differently from the rest of you that has him dead and you talking to me?" Ed asked.

"Most of us were trying to act like this wasn't our first rodeo, y'know? Yes, I want what you got, but I'm cool. JC was like a kid in a candy store. We were kinda hanging back, but he was there every time Carlos cut a new line."

"Randy didn't mention you." Ed observed.

"Thar's because Randy was right there with JC, shoulder to shoulder, fighting for every line. Randy's slipping, man, never met a high he didn't like. Randy misses things." Jordan observed sarcastically. Ed thought back to his encounter with Randy on the frat house lawn. The boy had seemed nervous, frightened, frozen in place. Strung out.

"Who else was there?" Ed asked.

"There were about ten of us, me, Randy, JC, Paul, Mike, Tripp, Marty, and a few others. Mostly juniors and seniors," Jordan added. It had all apparently started when Carlos called JC early in the evening and, because he had some young friends coming in, offered to treat the boys to a private party. JC rounded up a few friends and happened to run in to Jordan and some of the younger guys as he was leaving. The friends turned out to be young women, quite pretty, attentive young women. After a few hours, the drugs became scarce. Carlos said that his was gone, but that we could buy some from one of the other guys with him. Most of us bought a little, but JC, he bought a lot. His dad owns a car dealership. He always walks around with a big roll of cash. Walked. He didn't want the party to ever end, he said." Jordan twitched uncomfortably.

"What happened at the hospital?" Ed asked.

They took JC to the waiting room, seated him in a chair, and left him there. As they left, they told the receptionist that there was a guy in the waiting area that had lost consciousness who appeared to need help badly. They told her that they weren't sure who he was. She called for a nurse as the others slipped out the door. The emergency waiting room late at night tended to be chaotic, but on the weekends was even worse.

"He was dead before we got there, wasn't he?" Jordan asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, we believe so," Ed responded.

"Oh."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about JC?" Ed asked. The boy shook his head.

Ed continued, "I was looking for you last night, but you were nowhere to be found. Why is that, Jordan? Where were you between late afternoon and midnight last night?"The boy looked down.

"Carlos came and picked us up. He said you were looking for us and it would be fun to watch you spin your wheels and not complete your investigation. Sounded like fun, and sticking it to the man…sorry, Sergeant. But we went." The boy looked very uncomfortable and seemed to be struggling with regret.

"Where did you go?" Ed continued.

"Same office as before, He had food there, and booze. No coke this time, but as we got out of the car back at the frat house, he gave us cocaine. Each of us. Said it was a token of his appreciation for our cooperation. We decided to keep it to ourselves, so we went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. It hit me pretty hard, I thought, so I did a bit then backed off. Paul didn't. I did about half of mine. Paul did all of his, then came to me wanting more. I told him no. Right after that, the seizures started, the ambulance came, and they took him away."

A flash of realization suddenly hit Ed.

"Jordan, describe Carlos' car." Grey sedan, medium sized, tinted windows. The picture was starting to take shape. "What can you tell me about Carlos himself? Last name?"

"No, I don't know it. Medium height, he has curly brown hair and brown eyes and a bushy mustache."

"Heavy, slim?" Ed pressed.

"Neither, really. Just average, I think.

"How old is he?"

"Kinda old. Mid thirties, maybe?" Ed stifled a cough.

"Can you think of anything else that might help identify him?" Ed added.

"His accent. It's Hispanic, but not very strong. And I can't put my finger on it, but he sounds different from the other Hispanic guys I've been around."

"Where is the rest of the coke, Jordan? You need to level with me," Ed said sternly, meeting the boy's eyes. Jordan squirmed uncomfortably.

"You gonna arrest me?" Jordan asked.

"You still got cocaine?" Ed asked. Jordan lowered his eyes.

"No. After what happened to JC and Paul, I flushed it down the toilet." The boy met Ed's eyes again and held them.

"On the level?" Ed asked.

"Yes, sir, on the level. I'm done with that stuff. I think I'm done with this, too," he said, gesturing toward the fraternity house.

"We're watching you, all of you. Too much has happened. I can book you and search you and make this official, but I don't want to waste my time looking for something that isn't there, but you're right. You need to walk away, maybe from the fraternity, you have to decide that, but definitely from the drugs. If you don't, you will see me or one of my colleagues, and it won't end like this." Jordan nodded. Ed handed him his card. Jordan took it. "An officer will be here this afternoon to take you downtown and let you try to identify the office building where this took place. Will you help us?" The boy nodded slowly.

"Where should he pick you up? Here?" Ed continued.

"No. My dorm room. 326 Greene. I'd rather not be picked up here."

"If you think of anything else, get in touch with me. Thank you, Jordan, you've been a big help," Ed acknowledged as he headed toward his car. He had to talk to the Chief.

As Ed drove back to the office to compare notes with Chief Ironside, Carlos Miranda Rodriguez sat in his beautiful corner office and enjoyed the view as he smoked a Cuban puro cigar. The boys at the university were lunging at the hooks he baited, eager to become long term customers. His bait was the kingmaker's drug, which made the powerful feel invincible and the socially connected feel irresistible. He smiled and inhaled the pungent smoke as he smoothed the wrinkles from his tailored suit.

Cocaine. It wasn't grass, whose most frequent users giggled and munched as they avoided doing the tough things that allowed them to go on with their lives. It wasn't heroin, whose hard core users preferred drowsy, foggy nodding to action of any kind. It wasn't psychedelic, whose users embraced the insane unpredictability of hallucination, tuning out reality as they slid further and further into the surreal.

No, his customers were ambitious, smart, and wealthy enough to buy a relatively expensive drug whose intense high lasted minutes. Customers who, before long, felt like lions when using and losers when not. He himself never touched the stuff. He had seen too many such movers and shakers spend what they had on the drug, then spend what they did not as their euphoria began to fade in a desperate attempt to stave off the depression that balanced out the high. They were his cash cows. The Cochran boy's death was unfortunate, but he was a weak fool, and fools die every day. It was positively Darwinian, but was bringing scrutiny to his transactions, more and more of which were legal business deals. In a few short years, he would leave the drug trade for good.

He had turned the marijuana trade over to his younger brother to test his ability to manage the operation. So far, he had done well, managing his affairs with the same discretion he had observed in his older brother. The business was solid. His father, an immigrant, had earned an honest, meager paycheck as a janitor. His children, at least the ones he cared to acknowledge, would be CEO's. He puffed his puro and expertly blew a smoke ring, and then another.

Ed arrived back at the office to find Fran and the Chief comparing notes. As he walked toward the table, Mark greeted him.

"Successful at the fraternity house?" he asked. Ed nodded.

"I think so," he replied. Mark offered coffee. Ed shook his head.

"How long have they been back?" Ed asked quietly.

"A few minutes," Mark responded.

"So this is fresh?" Ed asked, knowing the answer.

"If I made a fresh pot of coffee every time you people came and went, the Chief would be bankrupt and trying to collect the cost out of my hide!" Mark exclaimed indignantly.

Ed regarded him innocently. "So you would like a cup?" he asked.

"No! That stuff is likely to crawl out of the pot and make us drink it. I'm pretty sure this is where black holes start," Mark quipped.

"Gentle enough for babies, you've said?" Ed goaded.

"Not after it's been on the burner all morning.

"Then why would you try to poison me with it?" Ed demanded. Mark just stared at him, shut his open mouth, grabbed the coffee pot, and headed to the kitchen.

"You people are impossible! Damned if I do and damned if I don't. If you want coffee, Sergeant Brown, feel free to make some!" he protested with mock indignation. "Because I am outta here. Bah!"

"Mark, where are you going?" the Chief asked.

"The library. I'll pick up groceries and the laundry on the way home. Chief, if you need anything, send up a smoke signal. I'll be watching." He grinned and left. Ed, Fran, and the Chief chorused goodbyes as he closed the door.

The Chief turned to Ed. "One Jordan Taylor. Did you find him?

"Yes. The drugs are coming from a thirty-something Hispanic man with expensive tastes who has an office downtown. His name is Carlos. Medium, medium, brown, brown, and a mustache. Fran, remember the gray sedan we passed as we left campus? The car matches the description of the car that Jordan Taylor gave me."

"Yes, I do remember," Fran replied.

"Well, our friend Carlos was there when JC Cochran died. Apparently, he sometimes gives cocaine out like party favors. He took our missing boys for a field trip to his office building while we searched the campus for them, gave them enough cocaine for a fairly intense binge, and drove away with them laughing about 'sticking it to the fuzz.' Those party favors are the ones that almost cost Paul Hughes his life. How is he, by the way, Chief? Ed inquired.

"The prognosis is better than it was. He seems to be fighting off the toxins. The doctors seem to think he will recover, but they are recommending a rehabilitation facility as soon as he is able to go. He wasn't terribly coherent, but kept mentioning Carlos himself."

"One interesting detail that Jordan Taylor included in his description of Carlos. He said that he has a faint Spanish accent, but that it's different from the other Hispanic kids that he has been around. That's got to mean something," Ed added, thoughtfully.

"As I was researching the cocaine trade, I saw a lot of Colombian involvement. The Andean region of South America has produced coca, the plant that cocaine comes from, for centuries, millennia even. In the high altitudes, they chew raw leaves to fight fatigue and altitude sickness. It's a mild stimulant, but chemically refined, it becomes cocaine. It takes a lot of coca to make a little cocaine, but they grow a lot of coca there. Demand for the drug seems to be really taking off," Fran explained. Both men pondered the information. Every day, it seemed, they heard of a new, different, more powerful or more desirable drug that American buyers could not seem to get enough of.

"Oh, Ed," the Chief began, taking a flyer off of the table. "This is the sketch from Officer Lewis' description of the boy running out of the alley. Henderson is taking it around to the city's high schools to try and put a face and name with the sketch. Why don't you check with him to see what he has found, then check on building ownership and office rentals by Hispanics in the downtown area."

"Chief," Ed interrupted, "I should have time to check with Henderson, but there is a memorial service for Bill this afternoon. I need to be there. It's out at the base."

"What time?" Ironside asked.

"Two PM," Ed answered.

"I will be there as well," the Chief stated. Ed nodded appreciatively "Fran, please take the offices and rentals. This Carlos sounds like he might be a bit more communicative with you than with Ed anyway, especially with your background in Spanish."

"Chief," she began, but he interrupted.

"I know, Fran, leave it when you need to, then pick it back up later this afternoon. We'll see you there." Fran responded with a grateful smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Henderson had managed to have several detectives assigned to him for the sketch followup. They planned to visit high schools, beginning with the ones in the area of the shooting, then work their way out to more distant schools. The officers in the detail had copies of the sketch that Officer Lewis had provided before his death. Henderson preferred pairs because they tended to be able to elicit more information that lone interrogators. Good cop, bad cop might be clichéd as hell, but it was frequently effective, especially with already frightened kids, and Henderson was past ready for a break in the case. The sketch was vague, a beginning, but Henderson hoped that it would narrow down possibilities and give them something concrete to go on. If they could find the kid who ran out of the alley and get him to open up about what he knew, they would, he felt certain, have the shooter. And then they could tighten the noose on the lousy pusher who had killed two cops.

Some of the investigators walked halls during class changes and asked teachers if they recognized the kid in the sketch. Two men pored through the current yearbook at the schools that they visited. They found a few boys who resembled the sketch in some way and recorded their names, even probing some with some general questions as long as they were willing to answer, but Henderson's instinct told him that they had not found their guy. They visited two schools, then a third, and Henderson was getting frustrated. They were, he thought, missing something important.

Ed met Henderson as he came out of the latest school.

"Find any possibilities?" he asked. He wasn't terribly hopeful. The schools in this part of San Francisco were poorer, working class, serving students whose fathers worked the nearby docks or in the many warehouses on the inland streets. The description of the kid didn't fit the clientele at these schools.

"Nothing worth following up. Yet" Henderson added.

"Where are you headed next?" Ed inquired. Henderson suggested a local public school, but Ed compared the kid's description to this depressed district's student profiles. He didn't think the boy would be a public school student. "Are there any private schools in the area?" He asked.

"Private? Yes, I see," Henderson said. "Yes, there are several in the general area. Most of them go through eighth grade, though. Couple of Catholic high schools in the area, Sacred Heart Prep and Archbishop Riordan."

"Will you buy a hunch? This boy was not from the neighborhood, but was able to be in that alley minutes after dismissal. Our best bet is one of the nearby private schools. If that doesn't work, we keep spreading out. Which one is closest to the scene of the shooting?"

Henderson paused. The public high schools had yielded nothing. He was willing to play it Ed's way. For now. "Sacred Heart. Why?"

"Because at this point, I have time to make one stop with you before Bill's memorial service, and I want it to count. I would love to go there with more than I have now." Ed reasoned.

"Sacred Heart it is, then. My car or yours?" Henderson asked.

"Both, I think. I may have to cut out on you," Ed explained. "You going?"

"To the service? No. I thought a lot of him, but I didn't know him that well. I figure there will be people from the base, cops, friends, family. The chapel's not that big." Henderson shrugged. They reached the cars. "You know where we are going?"

"I think I can find it, thanks," Ed responded. The older, established parochial schools he knew of. Secular private schools and day schools were starting to pop up all over town, and he hadn't kept up with them. Everyone knew Sacred Heart, though. "Lord, give me a bone I can take to this service," he breathed.

Detective Henderson and Sergeant Brown presented their badges in the office of the school. The secretary, a Mrs. Sullivan, seemed almost offended that the police would be looking for one of the students at such a fine parochial school until Henderson explained that the boy was probably a witness rather than a suspect.

"Who would know the boys here well enough to recognize the ones who would potentially match a sketch that another witness provided?" Henderson inquired.

"If you have a witness, why are you pulling boys out of their classes?" Mrs. Sullivan asked tartly.

"The witness died," Henderson responded flatly. Mrs. Sullivan's mouth rounded in a silent "O."

"I would know many of them. I have been at this school for 23 years," she said proudly. Henderson said nothing as he reached in his pocket for the sketch, but Ed felt the need to acknowledge what she had said. In most schools, if you antagonize the secretary, you're swimming upstream.

"That's quite an achievement, Mrs. Sullivan. I'm sure they rely on you for a lot of things around here," Ed said. She beamed at him. Henderson rolled his eyes. Fortunately, the secretary had her eyes on the handsome young detective who had complimented her.

"Thank you, Sergeant. They do, but I love my work," she added, still smiling.

"Can you take a look at this, ma'am?" Henderson exaggerated the "ma'am," but Mrs. Sullivan failed to notice. She took the sketch.

"This isn't very detailed. I can think of a handful of boys that it might fit. Let me get their names, and I will let you know where they are. While I do that, take a look at a yearbook to see if any fit that I failed to think of." Suddenly, this had become a puzzle that she wanted to help solve.

Ed and Henderson looked through the yearbook as she looked at the sketch, searched her memory, and checked her candidates against their student profile photos. She searched carefully, finally giving the detectives six boys' names.

"There may be others," she acknowledged, "but these are the strongest possibilities in my opinion. Are you sure it's one of our boys?" Henderson didn't like the question and hesitated. Ed would have answered, but this was not his investigation. Let Henderson do it his way.

"Relatively sure, ma'am," he hedged. "That's why it's really important that we talk to everyone who might have been involved. If you come up with any more, let us know."

"I will," she agreed. She gave the two detectives a list of the six boys and their current location. They headed to the nearest classroom and knocked on the door, asking to see the student Mrs. Sullivan had identified as a possible match for the sketch, but as the boy approached, he resembled their suspect less and less. They asked him a couple of questions about his location during the shooting and showed him some of the photos of the alley. He responded calmly and agreed to talk to them again if it became necessary. Not their guy, nor was the next, but when they flashed their badges and explained their presence to the teacher in the third classroom, one of the students' eyes widened and he seemed to freeze for a moment, then leap from his seat and charge the door.

"I didn't do anything! I didn't kill anyone! I didn't do it!" he shouted as Ed subdued him, turning his arm skillfully to immobilize him. The other students in the classroom watched incredulously as the little drama played out.

"Calm down! That's what we're here to talk about! Calm down," Ed repeated. The boy stopped struggling. "You cool?" The boy nodded and relaxed a little "If we can avoid a repeat performance, I'm going to let you go. Otherwise, I'm going to cuff you. Here and now, in front of everyone. Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes," the boy huffed, getting his breathing under control.

"Let's go talk in the office, son," Henderson suggested, and the boy nodded.

"I didn't do it," he said simply, breathing hard. A tear slid down his cheek. He looked and sounded very young. Ninth grade? Fifteen? Ed shook his head slightly.

"You didn't do what?" Ed asked.

"I didn't shoot those cops," he stated. They had their kid.

"But you know who did."

"Yes."

"What's your name, son?" Ed asked.

"Walter Perrin," he replied, weakly.

"I'm Sgt. Brown, Walter, and this is Detective Henderson."

"Sergeant Brown, would you like for me to call Walter's father? Does he need to be here?" called Mrs. Sullivan.

"Yes, ma'am, that would be a very good idea. Thank you."

"Walter, what were you thinking? Why on earth would you try to run from the police? Why not simply tell them what they need to know!" she demanded. "Your father is going to be very angry at you, and I am shocked and disappointed!" The boy blanched, and hunched his shoulders. He looked pleadingly at her.

"Oh, please don't…My dad's gonna kill me!" he began, but Henderson interrupted the exchange.

"Walter, is it? Could you come in and shut the door, please?" the detective asked. The boy did as he was asked.

"I didn't DO it!" the boy repeated to Henderson, anguish in his voice.

"Then who did, Walter? What really happened in the alley?" Henderson asked.

The boy took a deep breath and began to talk.

"I wanted to buy some grass. The guy I usually buy it from hangs out in the little park about a block from the alley. He usually goes into the alley to deal. Safer, more private. No one goes back there."

"Is he out there every day?" Ed asked.

"Yeah, mostly. I go right after school when I want to get something. It's pretty rough around there after dark, and it's easier to handle before my mom gets home. She's a teacher, elementary, so she's usually home pretty early."

"Who is your seller?" Henderson inquired. The boy squirmed at the term. Obviously, he didn't think of himself as a drug user. "Who sells you pot, Walter?" Henderson insisted. "Come on, kid, you give him money, he gives you drugs. You're buying pot and you have a seller. Who is it?"

"His name is Terry. I don't know his last name," Walter said shakily.

"Can you describe him?"

Terry was smallish, a little taller than Walter, a little older, thin. He wore his hair longer, straight, dark. He was a student, but not at Sacred Heart. Walter thought he went to one of the public high schools in the area, but he wasn't sure which one. A tenth grade friend had recommended him.

Walter had been dealing with him for a few months. He'd tried a little grass at a party of a friend whose parents had been out of town, and he found it helped him relax. He kept a little on hand, but didn't smoke often, he said. Mostly on the weekends at parties with his friends, or sometimes after school when he was really stressed out about something. Once or twice, he had smoked a little in the morning before leaving for school, but he didn't do that often because he felt like everyone knew he'd smoked when he got to school.

"How often do you buy?" Henderson asked.

"About once a week. No more," came the reply.

"What else can you tell us about Terry?" Ed asked. Not much, apparently, except that he lived nearby, Walter thought.

"Is Terry the shooter?" Henderson asked directly. Walter swallowed but nodded.

"Then tell us what happened."

Walter had gone to the park to find Terry right after dismissal. They walked to the alley, made the transaction, and Walter had just turned to go when the uniformed policeman rounded the corner. Walter froze, but Terry snatched the .22 pistol he always carried from his waistband and fired. It all seemed to happen in an instant. The cop brought his hands up to his bleeding chest and collapsed. At that instant, a second officer ran around the corner shouting "Bill!"

Walter panicked and began to run, expecting to feel the sting of a bullet in his back as he ran, but he just kept running. Before he reached the other policeman, the cop was pulling his gun out of his holster, but as he got it clear, another shot sounded and the cop's head snapped back. He fell, his weapon hitting the asphalt. Walter never looked back. He ran for blocks, almost knocking an elderly man down as he exited one of the businesses near the alley. He kept running until the panic subsided and he could consider his next move.

No one had seen him except for Terry and the cops and the old man. He knew Terry wouldn't tell, having too much to lose, and he thought the cops were dead. The old man could maybe give the cops something, but he was a random old man and Walter was a random kid away from the shooting scene. But for days, the images he had seen dominated his thoughts. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep, and when he did, the images from his nightmares floated in front of his eyes. He couldn't concentrate to study. He couldn't erase the look of surprise on the first cop's face, or dismiss the guilt he felt for his part in his death. He felt that he was waiting, waiting for the inevitable next step, and he was terrified that he might be thought the killer. And then there were detectives in his classroom door. Finally, he faltered.

"I'm sorry," he said. 'I'm really sorry. I just wanted a little grass to relax. Who dies because of grass?"

"Thank you, Walter," Ed said. He kept his voice even. The boy had helped the investigation tremendously, but the senseless carelessness, the randomness as Walter had put it, baffled and saddened him. Ed left Henderson to deal with the boy, his father, the official statement, the mug shots, and the charges, if there were to be any. He headed across town to the chapel. It was just past one. Who dies because of grass? Bill Eller.


	6. Chapter 6

Ed arrived at the chapel at 1:40. The van was already there, and Mark was pushing the Chief toward the chapel entrance. Fran had not yet arrived. The chapel was small, as Henderson had noted, and was beginning to fill up. An officer found a place for Ironside's chair behind the back row of pews and brought out folding chairs for Ed, Mark, and Fran. There was no way to accommodate them closer to the front.

"This okay, Chief?" Ed asked.

"I suppose it had better be," came the reply.

"What were you going to do about it?" Mark inquired. Ed just shook his head.

Ed had wanted to sit near the family. He knew nothing about them. He and Bill had met a couple of times for beers after work, but although Ed had intended to keep in touch with this man with whom he felt he had a lot in common and to whom he felt he owed a debt of gratitude he could never fully repay, maintaining friendships on his schedule was next to impossible. He hoped Bill had understood.

From the looks of things, he hadn't been without other friends. As Henderson had predicted, there were soldiers and former soldiers, friends from the motor pool, and plenty of cops in attendance. The chapel was almost full, and they began to direct the overflow to other rooms in the building where they had set up audio so that the latecomers could listen to the service at least.

Fran entered a few minutes after they began to divert people from the chapel. Ed saw her as she began to follow a group leaving the chapel, got up and caught her. As they returned, he glanced at the reserved rows in the front of the chapel. Empty. The family apparently was going to process into the service. Ed and Fran sat down. Both were eager to talk about the morning's investigation, but with a shared look they agreed that this was not the best place to compare notes from the morning, so they sat in silence as the organist played a hymn.

"Sorry I cut it so close," Fran finally whispered. "It took longer to park than I thought."

"You made it, anyway," said Ironside.

"Thanks for saving me a seat. I did not want to sit in that room and listen to the service."

"You're welcome," Mark whispered.

"Shhh!" hissed their boss. "You still CAN end up in that room if you can't be quiet!" They traded amused glances. Events like this always made the Chief uncomfortable.

At two o'clock, the family entered the church and filed into the front row of seats. Ed thought he identified Bill's mother, an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, another thirtyish woman who looked a lot like Bill with her husband, he guessed, and two small children. Sister probably, followed by a very old couple supported by a young man and a teenaged boy. Some others followed in no particular order. Aunts, uncles, cousins, perhaps?

There were more hymns, prayers, scripture readings, and finally, a eulogy. The chaplain had known Bill, but not well, and talked of salvation and heaven and peace in eternity with God, but as Bill had not been an overtly religious man, it did not feel terribly personal. After he finished, he gave the attendees the opportunity to say something about their comrade. Several of the soldiers gave brief speeches about Bill's courage, his integrity, and his loyalty to his friends. Ironside looked at Ed, silently asking if he wanted to add his account to the service, but Ed shook his head. Fran put her hand on his arm.

Finally, the service ended. The family filed into a reception room to greet those that wanted to speak to them, which Ed intended to do, but Mark, the Chief, and Fran decided to leave. Negotiating the crowd would have been very difficult for Ironside, and having paid his respects, he was ready to go. They said goodbye to Ed and agreed to meet at the office later.

"You okay?" Fran asked him, softly.

"I'm fine," he replied. "I just want to say something to his mother."

"Want me to stay with you?" Fran persisted.

"Do you _want_ to stay with me? If you do, fine. If not, I am ok with this."

"Men!" she huffed. "Would it kill you to admit that you have feelings now and then?"

"Yes! But thanks anyway, I guess." She left, mumbling. Ed made his way to the receiving room. The line was long, but moved rather quickly. The family was mainly from Philadelphia and planned to have a burial service there, so few of the attendees knew them well enough to offer more than a brief introduction and expression of sympathy. Finally, Ed reached Bill's mother. He introduced himself.

"You're Ed Brown?" she asked "The one that inspired my son to enter the police academy? " Her eyes searched his and she stepped out of line. "Excuse me," she said to everyone in general, "I'll be right back." She walked out into the hall with Ed, who found himself a bit apprehensive about the conversation that was about to take place. If she blamed him…

"So you are Ed Brown?" she repeated. "Thank you so much for coming. I hoped you would."

"Yes. I had to come," Ed said, a little stiffly.

"You were a good friend to my son. He told me about how you never lost faith in him, even when the evidence was so overwhelming that he had essentially given up on himself. You gave me back my son. Thank you." She had held up so well, carried herself with composure and dignity, but now her eyes shone with unshed tears and her voice quivered slightly. Ed looked away, uncomfortable. Her brow furrowed as she peered intently at him.

"What is this," she asked, "What aren't you telling me? Sergeant?"

He met her eyes again. "Did he tell you that he saved my life? Before any of this happened?"

"No, Bill wouldn't have told me something like that," she said with conviction. Ed nodded. Of course. He would have felt the same way.

"There was a robbery. I got out of my car to investigate as the robbers ran out of the store. They shot me, and I was bleeding out in the street. Bill pulled me out of the line of fire and put a tourniquet on my leg." Ed took a deep breath.

"Then my son was a brave and generous man. He was also a good judge of character. You were a friend to him when he desperately needed one."

"I don't understand. He shouldn't have done it. He was AWOL, involved in a murder investigation. How could anyone believe he was a killer when he risked his life to save a stranger?"

"What would you have done, Sergeant? Walk away? You would have done the same thing without ever considering doing otherwise. Then why are you so surprised that Bill made the same choice?" She waited for Ed to answer, but he said nothing.

"That choice saved my son," She mused.

"What do you mean 'saved him'?" Ed asked. "He wasn't saved. He's dead."

"Before you and your boss stepped in, my son was broken, scandalized, a solid military career ruined, running, hiding. He had nowhere to turn and no one to turn to. He called me while he was on the run. I could hear the desperation, anger, and disbelief in his voice. I was terrified for him. He was far more lost than he ever was in Viet Nam." She took a breath and collected herself.

"The son I am burying, God help me, is whole. He believed in himself and what he was doing. He was at peace. That's something, at least," she continued. "You gave him back to me. Thank you"

Ed nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Eller. I am so sorry about his death."

She replied, "I know. It hasn't really hit me yet, and when it does…" she trailed off. "Sergeant, I expect to hear from you from time to time. Be careful, young man. My son thought a lot of you. Remember him. He was a good man. And my name is Janet."

Ed held out his hand to her, but she pulled him into an embrace. He resisted briefly, surprised, but then gave in and returned the hug. Her lips brushed against his cheek as she pressed a small piece of paper into his hand and let him go. He smiled and turned quickly, not wanting her to see the emotions flashing on his face, or the blush that colored his cheeks. She turned quickly and returned to her family. He paused, then walked thoughtfully toward his car.

"How did it go?" Chief Ironside thundered as Ed entered.

"How did what go?" Ed countered. Ironside gave a huff of impatience.

"Meeting Bill's family, what else?!" The Chief snapped.

"Oh, that. Fine." Ed said. Fran was glaring at him, but Mark would not meet her eyes. He was smirking. Ed Brown certainly did not waste words.

"Did you talk to Bill's mother?" Fran asked.

"Yes," Ed replied.

"And?" she probed.

"Nice lady," Ed said. Mark coughed, remembering the last time Ed had been less than tight-lipped with Fran. Moonlight and romance. Mark still gave him grief about that line sometimes.

"That's all?" Fran asked, incredulously.

"More or less. What you were you expecting?"

"From _you?_ That, I guess." Fran responded. By now, the Chief was grinning, too.

"All right, people, enough with the chit chat," the Chief said. "We have cases to solve. Ed, what did you find today with Henderson?"

Ed related how they had found the buyer from the alley. He hoped that Henderson had made progress with the information Walter had provided. With the sketch and the name and having narrowed down the area, the kid shouldn't be hard to find.

"Chief, we working this case now?" Ed asked.

"Not we, Sergeant, but you seem close to breaking this one. See this one through and I get my sergeant back, right?" Ironside asked.

"Yes, Chief, I think we are very close," Ed responded. "One day."

"One day, then I need your undivided attention," the Chief agreed.

"You got it, Chief," Ed replied, gratefully. "It will either be closed or very close." Ed got up from the table and headed for the door. As Ironside watched him go, he felt a stab of uncertainty.


	7. Chapter 7

The Good Samaritan Chapter 7

"We got a name and an address," Henderson said. "We were just heading over there. Want to meet us?" Henderson provided the address. Ed agreed, checked his watch, and headed to his car. The apartment was four blocks from the alley that Bill died in. The trip should take about fifteen minutes.

Ed drove down the street until he saw Henderson's car. He pulled in a couple of spaces further on and got out.

"Glad you made it. The apartment is right over there." Henderson indicated with a glance. "Ready?"

"Yeah, let's go," Ed replied. They approached the apartment and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Police! Open up!" Henderson shouted. Henderson looked at Ed and shrugged. He kicked the door in. A man was asleep, snoring, on the couch. They moved past him down the hallway, pausing at a bedroom. A boy of about fifteen sat on his bed with a .22 pistol in front of him on the bed. He made no move to pick up the gun.

"Terry Johnson, you are under arrest for the murders of," Henderson declared.

The boy interrupted Henderson. "I know," he said quietly.

"Hand me the gun, barrel first." The boy complied. "Who's that in the den?" Henderson asked.

"My dad. He passed out a few minutes ago. He won't wake up now for a few hours at least." A lock of hair fell into the boy's eyes. He pushed it to the side

"You ready to go, boy?" Henderson asked.

"Does it matter?' Terry replied.

"No," came Henderson's answer. "You wanna do the honors, Sergeant?' Ed nodded and guided the boy off of the bed. He put handcuffs on him and read him his rights. With the boy walking in front, they went back through the house, pausing in the front room to try and wake the father. The boy was right. They were unsuccessful. The man continued to snore.

"Every night?" Ed asked the boy, who nodded. "How long?"

"Couple months, since he lost his job," was the boy's lifeless response.

"Where's your mother?" Ed continued.

"Dunno. Haven't seen her since I was a kid."

"How old are you? Fifteen, sixteen? You're still a kid." The boy just stood silently for a moment, staring, then looked at his hands.

"A _little_ kid," he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. The boy's head was about the height of Ed's shirt pocket. Ed shook his head and guided the boy toward the door.

"No questions?" the boy asked over his shoulder.

"They'll wait until we get downtown," replied Henderson gruffly. They reached the sidewalk and began walking the short distance to the car. It was now fully dark. They passed under a streetlight just before reaching the vehicle when a shot rang out. The boy grunted and grabbed his shoulder as his knees started to buckle. There was another shot as Ed grabbed the boy and turned him, putting his body between the kid and the gun. The shot whizzed by and thudded into the pavement. Ed pushed the boy between two parked cars. As he did, he heard another shot, saw Henderson fire at the same instant toward a recessed doorway a few doors down and immediately felt white hot pain sear his side. He staggered and gasped, pressing the wound, then ducked between the cars to kneel beside the boy, who was lying on his side, eyes open, breathing hard.

There was another shot, followed almost instantaneously by a shot from Henderson's .38. They heard someone cry out and the gun clatter on the concrete.

"I got him!" Henderson shouted. "How's the kid?"

"Hit. Shoulder. But it doesn't look too bad," Ed replied. Henderson's voice seemed to come from very far away. There was a moment when nothing seemed to happen during which Henderson went to check on the shooter, who lay gravely wounded and unconscious. Henderson took his weapon and returned to check on the boy.

"Mister, he got shot. He doesn't look so good," the boy said shakily.

"Brown?" Henderson asked, stepping between the cars.

"Take care of the kid," Ed said. Ed was still on one knee beside the boy with one hand on the car's bumper and the other pressed to his right side. Blood seeped between is fingers. Henderson stepped toward him as he slid to the street. He felt Henderson move his hands to check the wound.

"Damn. Take it easy, Brown. I'm calling for help now."

He heard Henderson radio for additional units and ambulances. Three gunshot victims. He had a fuzzy image of Henderson taking off his jacket and folding it, then kneeling beside him.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, I'm going to hurt you, but I have to slow the bleeding down." There was so much blood. The searing pain doubled as Henderson pressed his jacket firmly to Ed's side. Ed's final recollection was of Henderson saying, "Ironside's gonna kill me…" Then he slipped into the darkness.

Ed woke to sunlight streaming through a window. His head felt fuzzy, his mouth was absurdly dry, and his side felt as though someone had performed surgery on it with a white-hot poker. He shifted a little to ease the pain but nothing seemed to help. The world was absurdly, blindingly white. Oh, hospital. Damn, he thought. His favorite place. He coughed and hissed at the pain that caused, then saw movement from the corner of his eye. Fran's face swam into view.

"Ed, welcome back!" she said, smiling. "Chief, he's awake."

"Hey," he managed. The Chief and Mark entered the room. He tried to pull himself up a little straighter, but failed. He stifled a groan.

"Easy, Ed," the Chief said soothingly. "You had a rough night. Rest." A nurse entered the room.

"Glad to see you awake, Sergeant," she said somewhat brusquely. "You gave everyone quite a scare. All right, it's time for some pain medication. Can you rate the pain that you're feeling on a scale of one to ten?"

Ed considered the question. Twelve, he thought.

"Five," he answered, tightly. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Liar," the nurse retorted immediately. "OK, your pain management just became my decision." She pulled out a syringe, prepped it, and shot it into his IV port. As she took his vital signs, he felt himself relax. His eyelids drooped. No! He needed to stay awake. Too many questions. But the darkness fell anyway.

When he woke up again, he was alone. The windows were dark. The IV was gone, and the pain had subsided some. He moved the bed into a sitting position. It caused his side to catch and pull a little, but it was bearable, and he had been on his back long enough. The door opened and Terry walked into the room hesitantly. His arm was in an immobilizer.

"You're okay?" Ed asked. "Good. Wandering the halls?"

"I really wanted to talk to you. Officer Finch is just outside the door, but I wanted to talk to you alone. Are you okay?" the boy asked quietly.

"I'm fine," Ed answered. The boy nodded. "Terry, the guy who shot you, do you know him?"

"Yeah, he's my supplier."

"'Is?' Then he's still alive?" Ed asked.

"Yeah, he's here, too. ICU." Ed nodded. Good. This ought to go a long way toward breaking the case wide open.

"I have to ask you, Terry, why are you here? In my room, that is. I'm a cop. I arrested you. My testimony will be part of the case against you."

"Why are you here, Sergeant? I shot your friend. No one ever risked anything for me. Were you just protecting a witness?" The kid sounded lost and vulnerable.

"I was trying to save a kid," he responded,

"It's too late! Don't you get it? I killed those guys! My life is over. You guys found me a little too soon," the anguish in his voice became despair.

"Is that why the gun was on the bed?" Ed asked. The boy just looked at him.

"Terry, it's going to work out, one way or another. It will get better than this, I promise. I will do what I can for you," Ed reassured him.

"Why? That's what I don't get. Why?!" His voice broke.

"Lots of reasons, but mainly, right now, because l think that Bill would want me to." Ed sighed and closed his eyes. The exchange had exhausted him. The door opened and a nurse appeared.

"Terry, Officer Finch is going to take you back to your room now. You've been up long enough. Sergeant, I think it's time for your pain meds. I think we can graduate to pills now. There you are." She handed him a small paper cup with the meds and a glass of water.

"Thanks," he said, taking the cup. She waited, watching him.

"Take the pills, Sergeant. I can get a syringe in here in no time."

"Oh, all right!" he groused as he took the pills. She took the paper cup from him and smiled sweetly before turning and leaving the room. Terry turned to go as well. He paused in the doorway and whispered, "Thank you," and was gone.

The next morning, Ed felt much better. He began to feel restless, eager to leave the hated hospital, eager to get home, and eager to get back in the loop of the investigations. He was considering trying to contact Henderson and was a little irritated that Henderson had not tried to talk to him. The door opened, and the doctor walked in.

"Good morning, Sergeant. You look much better today," he said. "I'm Doctor Culp. I performed your surgery."

"You're letting me go?" Ed asked, hopefully.

"Not for a few days yet," came the reply.

"Come on, Doc, there's no skeletal damage, no organ damage, just tissue. Let me out of here," Ed argued.

"And you'd rest? Nothing strenuous? No running around investigating, chasing suspects, dodging bullets?" Ed was shaking his head in response.

"No, none of that until you clear me." The doctor gazed at him neutrally. Was he smirking slightly?

"I spoke to your boss yesterday," Doctor Culp began.

"Oh, boy," Ed sighed, his hope of release evaporating.

"He understands, as I hope you will understand, that the damage from the exit wound was extensive. If you tear anything, as you are likely to do if you are moving around, we may not be able to put things back together as neatly as we did the first time. You are going to be here for a few more days at least. I think that you will find that, food aside, it's not that bad a place to be."

"I could check out AMA," Ed said, stubbornly.

"You'd be back, soon. And I don't think your boss would be pleased. In fact…"

"All right, I'll stay. For now," he grumbled. The doctor smiled.

"Ah, the voice of reason. I'll check back with you later. Glad to see you doing better, Sergeant," called the doctor as he exited. Thanks a lot, Ed thought. Hospitals!


	8. Chapter 8

The Good Samaritan Chapter 8

The hours passed slowly. Downtown, in a well-furnished corner office, Carlos Miranda sat in his high-backed leather chair nervously puffing a cigar as his brother paced in front of the desk. He was visibly angry, rage darkening his handsome olive complexion.

"López is a fool and you, mi hermano, are a fool for hiring him!" he shouted.

"Carlos, I didn't order the hit! It was López' idea. We all knew that the boy would talk if they found him, we just thought we had more time."

"One of you geniuses should have made a deal with the boy. He was in it for the money. Give him so much money his loyalty is to us and get him out of here. He had nothing holding him here!" Carlos roared. Ricardo flinched. He had not seen his brother show such fury since they were children.

"We didn't think of it…" Ricardo began.

"You didn't think at all!" Carlos interrupted, his voice rising with each word. "Damn!" he cried, jumping up. He slammed his fist into the paneled wall. Ricardo recoiled again.

"Okay, okay, we have to assume that the boy has given them everything he knows, but that is essentially López, not us. We also have to assume that López will give them us to avoid the attempted murder charges he's facing once he has recovered sufficiently," Carlos reasoned.

"If he had killed the damn kid," Ricardo began.

"Cállate, idiota! Silencio! If you are going to hire fools, at least hire decent marksmen! But you didn't," Carlos spat.

"So what are we gonna do? Hit López?" Ricardo asked a little timidly. His brother shot him a venomous look and rolled his eyes.

"Ay, dios mio, ese baboso," he sighed. "No, Ricardo. I doubt that we could get within two floors of him, and God knows, you don't know anyone that can shoot. That would be the fastest way to get caught. This Ironsides, they say, is a genius. I don't care to find out." He stubbed out the puro and put his fist to his mouth, pensively chewing the tip of his thumb. Ricardo watched him expectantly.

"We close out all of our accounts, quickly, cash everything in that we can. See if you can dump any of the merchandise, yours and mine, wholesale, now. Get what you can for it. I will contact our attorney and have him handle some longer term stuff for us. I'll instruct him to send that to us," Carlos said.

"That's a lot of money, isn't it?" Ricardo asked. "Where will you have him send it?"

"We will very shortly be in Colombia. The money, I suspect, will have made our lawyer a very wealthy and happy man. Ten prisa. I want us in Mexico in 3 hours."

Henderson stopped by not long after the doctor left. He had been talking to Terry, who was more than willing to cooperate. He'd given Henderson as many names as he could, but he was on the organization's periphery. Beyond his dealer, he didn't know much about how the group worked. It seemed, though, that Terry's supplier would live after all. If he cooperated, they should have information on the group's leaders. At last, Henderson rose.

"Can't say I like how this turned out, but I enjoyed working with you, Sergeant. Maybe we'll find ourselves working together again," he said, grinning a little as he reached to shake Ed's hand. "Take care of yourself."

"Thanks," Ed replied, "Good luck tying up the loose ends on this one." Henderson responded with a brisk nod and left.

Ironside and Mark visited at lunchtime. Ed was lying with his eyes closed, thinking through the developments in both investigations.

"You awake?" Mark asked. Ed sat up and smiled. Friends, and answers.

"Yeah," he grunted, "I thought you might be another one of those needle-happy nurses."

"No, but I could find one pretty easily, if you like," Mark offered.

"Thanks for having my back!" Ed grumbled.

"He's feeling better," Mark said to the Chief. "He's almost as grumpy as you are."

"Grumpy? You wound me, Mr. Sanger. I'm occasionally mildly cantankerous, I'll grant, but common grumpiness?" The Chief protested. "Good to have you back, Ed."

"Thanks, Chief. How about helping me get out of here?" He had to try, at least.

"No."

"Pardon?"

"No. I talked to the doctor, you talked to the doctor, and then I talked to the doctor. He convinced me. Shall I convince you?" The Chief stared at him. Ed looked away.

"No. Can you at least update me on what's going on? It will give me something to think about while I'm stuck here. And get me a phone. Please, Chief. That way, I can at least keep up," he pleaded.

The Chief sent Mark to get a phone for the room as he briefed Ed on the latest developments in both cases. The District Attorney was recommending charges of second degree murder for the boy, and further recommending that he be tried as a juvenile. The shooter, who was no longer in ICU, was charged with attempted murder. As Ed's situation had initially been very grave, they were discussing first degree charges. The man, Kevin López, was more afraid of the charges than of his boss, whose name was Ricardo Miranda Rodriguez. López guessed that he was on his way to Colombia, or would be soon.

They were investigating Miranda Rodriguez, searching for evidence to support the testimonies. At this point, they knew that he was of Colombian descent but American-born, that he seemed to be the head of the marijuana distribution ring of which Terry was a part, and that he showed up at some of the trendiest places in town, dressed immaculately and spending a great deal of money. He had one brother whose name, it seemed, was Carlos. Both were medium height, slender to medium build, with dark, curly, longish hair. Carlos, it seemed, had a mustache and drove a gray luxury sedan. Fran, Carl, Henderson, and others were gathering information.

Terry was doing well physically, cooperating completely with the investigation, and would be released from the hospital to the juvenile ward today or tomorrow. Finch and compatriots served both as detaining officers and protection for the boy in case someone was stupid enough to again try to eliminate him. The DA was planning to seek a plea deal that would give the boy a chance to eventually earn a life out of prison, but which would keep him in prison for life if he did not. It was a chance, and it would be up to the boy. He would serve a minimum of ten years if the proposal was acceptable.

"When are you picking the Mirandas up?" Ed asked.

"Early this afternoon we should get Carlos. He has called one of the banks in which he has a large account to withdraw his assets. He told the manager that he had had a family emergency and wanted to make sure that the funds were available. We will have men there, of course."

"And Ricardo?"

"We've had a man on him. Right now, he is in the office suite that Carlos rents downtown. If he moves, we'll arrest him. If he doesn't, we'll go in and get him when we get Carlos at the bank. We would rather not get him too early and tip Carlos off."

"Thanks, Chief," Ed said. He wanted to know what had gone on, needed to know, but fatigue had set in. The Chief noticed.

"All right. I think that's enough for now. I'll be back with updates when there's something new to tell. Rest, Ed," he said, wheeling toward the door.

"Phone? At least you can update me instead of having me wait for someone to wander by."

"I'm sure they will have one for you in a little while. Right now, you don't need the distraction, I think. Soon enough. And don't worry, someone will be 'wandering by' enough to keep you somewhat informed." Ed didn't have the energy to insist, but as the Chief reached the door, he said, "Chief." Ironside turned.

"Yes, Ed?" he asked.

"This is hard. Relying on so many people for information, depending on other people to do what I desperately want to do myself, waiting for outcomes I didn't directly shape. I never really understood just how hard it is." Ed swallowed.

"We play the hand we are dealt, Sergeant. And pray for a little bit of luck along the way." He smiled slightly, opened the door, and left. Ed quickly drifted into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Ricardo hit the streets while Carlos arranged to meet his banker and planned their escape to Mexico and then Colombia. The younger brother called in debts and contacted competitors, most of whom knew the situation, eager for the opportunity to buy Ricardo's merchandise cheaply. Ricardo got what he could, amassing several thousand dollars. Had he had time to sell it properly, he would have gotten ten times as much. He began to realize that they would be starting over in Colombia, but he had faith in Carlos' business sense. They had come so far so fast in San Francisco, and Carlos had excellent contacts, even in South America. At noon, he was, as ordered, in Carlos' office waiting for his brother's call giving him final instructions as to where he was to go and how.

Carlos' meeting with his banker would be at one. Ricardo didn't dare do anything that would fully distract him. This is going to be a slow hour, he thought. He sat down at Carlos' desk, picked up a magazine, and began to flip through it, glancing nervously from the photos inside to the slowly moving hands of the clock. After a few minutes, he pulled his gun from its holster and set it on the desk

A tall, lean, gray-haired man in a nondescript suit sat in a small sitting area at the hallway entrance, his eyes intent on the office doorway. His radio, volume very low, carried the voice of Carl Reese.

"Is he in there?"

"Yes," the other man replied.

"Alone?" Carl asked.

"Yes. We've had someone watching the office all day."

"Good. If he tries to leave, keep him in sight. We have people all over the building. He'll have company everywhere he goes. We go in at one exactly."

"Yes, sir, lieutenant. Got it."

"Reese out."

The chief sat somewhat impatiently in the bank manager's office with Mark and Fran. He had arrived as Carl was conversing with his detective about the surveillance of Carlos' office. He knew that Carl and his men were stationed throughout the building. He knew that Carl was good at his job, a bit too methodical sometimes, but a damn good lieutenant who would make a fine captain someday. Like Carl, he had stationed men throughout the bank. He ran their plans through his head, detail by detail, as he had done an endless number of times before. All they could do was wait. These were arrests that he badly wanted made, cleanly, without more casualties. This case had far too many of them as it was.

Ed sat in his bed, restless, staring intently at the wall in front of him. The chief had briefed him on the plans he had for arresting the two brothers. He looked at the clock and imagined each piece in the traps in their places and waiting as inconspicuously as possible for the arrests to be made, each trying to mask the tension that he felt churning inside. He could visualize both scenes vividly. A nurse entered his room.

"Everything all right, Sergeant?" she asked lightly as she checked his charts.

"Fine, thank you," Ed answered tersely. She frowned slightly.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, again lightly. Ed broke off his stare and looked at her.

"I doubt that they're worth that," he responded, smiling a little. "Just a lot on my mind."

"That you can't do anything about right now," she continued.

"Exactly." This time his smile was genuine.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked.

"Out of here?" he asked.

"I was thinking along the lines of water or something. You'll be our guest for the rest of the day at least. I'll be back a little later on. If you need anything in the meantime, hit the call button," she said as she moved toward the door. Ed watched the door close and began running over the chief's plans again. It was 12:30. He resumed staring, visualizing.

Ricardo had put the magazine down. The pictures of celebrities were stupid, repetitive, boring. He would never understand this country's infatuation with "stars." He had taken paper from the wastebasket and was trying to throw it into the trash can from Carlos' chair.

At the back of his mind, on such a primal level that he could not express it in words, he sensed that something was wrong. He tried to imagine why he felt the way he did, found no logical reason, but the feeling persisted, growing stronger. Carlos had told him to sit tight in the office, but the walls were closing in. He walked to the door and peeked through the blinds. Everything seemed fine.

He opened the door and walked toward the bathroom in the hallway, noticing a suited, 40-ish man reading a newspaper in the sitting area at the entrance of the hallway. The man looked up at him and nodded a greeting. Ricardo nodded back. That was when he saw part of the tip of a radio protruding from the man's coat, which lay on the table. Cop. He almost froze but forced himself to stay calm. In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, dried it, and looked at himself in the mirror, forcing the panic down. What could he do? Right now, he decided, he would return to the office to think. It was 12:35.

The office door closed behind him as Ricardo forced his breathing to slow. What could he do? He could shoot the man, but he was sure that there would be many more. He could run, but if they wanted to arrest him, there was a gauntlet of policemen between him and freedom. He began to pace restlessly.

The office door began to open. Ricardo instinctively grabbed the gun and pointed it at the...janitor? The old man was pushing a custodian's cart. The old man froze.

"Ay, dios mio, patrón, no me mate! Por el amor de dios, Señor!" the man cried, his hands in front of his face. Ricardo lowered the gun without firing. Finally, he had a plan.

"Antonio," he breathed, "You nearly scared me to death. Me asusaste! I need your help, old friend. Tu ayuda, Tio." And he laid out his plan. Antonio listened carefully, but began to shake his head.

"No, por favor, Patrón, no lo puedo. Necesito éste trabajo…"

"You won't lose your job! I'll see to it!" What choice did he have but to lie to the stupid old man? "I will give you one hundred dollars, Antonio. Cien dólares!" Ricardo hissed.

"Mil. Es un riesgo ridículo. Mil." Antonio countered. A thousand dollars. The young patrón had much, much more, he was sure. He would never miss it, but the old man would never forget this windfall.

"Hecho. Okay. Mil," he said as he pulled the bills out of the roll in his pocket and handed them to the old man. Antonio left the office without the trash can and went to the supply closet near the office. From it, he extracted a wad of trash bags. They were on top of a custodial coverall that he guessed would fit the young patrón. He wrapped the coverall in the trash bags and re-entered the office, feeling the eyes of the detective in the hallway watching his every move. Ricardo donned the coverall and slid into the trash can.

With difficulty, Antonio pushed the trash can out of the room and stopped at the next office, opening the door and entering. He nodded a terse, silent greeting at the people working inside. He emptied the trash cans, partially covering Ricardo. One more office should do the trick. Antonio glanced at the clock. 12:42. He entered the next office, emptying the trash cans, completely covering Ricardo. As Ricardo had told him to do, he rolled the large cart down the hall past the seated detective, who rose to look inside. Just trash, he thought. Job makes me too suspicious.

Antonio waited calmly waited for the elevator, pushed the cart inside, and descended to the basement where the building's large metal trash bin waited. No one paid the old man any attention as he slowly rounded the bin. He stopped in front of the bin and Ricardo climbed out, then into the metal bin. Antonio grasped the much lighter can and emptied it, then turned back towards the building. He patted the $1000 in his pocket and went back to work. It was 12:55.

Minutes before 1:00, two of Carlos' men walked into the bank and stationed themselves strategically around the main lobby, much more conspicuously than the handful of plainclothes policemen scattered around, in the teller's line, in the waiting area, in an office with an account manager. At 1:00 exactly, Carlos strode into the bank accompanied by a third man and walked directly toward the bank manager's office.

"Ah, Mr. Miranda, good afternoon!" said the manager, emerging from the doorway to direct his client inside. One of Carlos' men moved to enter with him, but Carlos shook his head. He backed away, but continued watching intently. As Carlos entered and the door shut behind him, he saw Ironside. His hand went to his gun.

"I wouldn't," said the chief. Fran trained her weapon on Miranda. He moved his hand away from the hidden holster and held them loosely in front of him.

"Ironsides," he hissed. "What is the meaning of this? I am here to make a simple, legal bank transaction. Why does your policewoman have her gun on me?" he demanded.

"Ironside, Mr. Miranda. One s. And my policewoman's actions are one of the many things we have to discuss."

"I will discuss nothing without my attorney," Carlos told the chief.

"Of course. Fran, let's take Mr. Miranda into custody and get him downtown. This discussion is one that I am eager to have," said Ironside, turning to leave the office. Two plainclothes officers entered the office as he left. As planned, when the door to the office had shut, the officers in the lobby had arrested Carlos' men without incident. The four suspects were loaded into police cars to be taken downtown.

The chief entered the van and grabbed the radio mic.

"Carl, come in. Carl!" he demanded.

"Chief? Reese here," Carl said. The chief thought that the tone of Carl's voice betrayed that this was a conversation that he would rather not have.

"Carl, what's going on up there? We've arrested Carlos Miranda and are taking him downtown. Do you have Ricardo?" Carl hesitated for a moment, but knew that with Ironside, whether the news was good or bad, the only way to give it to him was straight. Damn.

"No, chief, he was not in the office," Carl said as calmly as he could. He shot a glare at the detective that he had posted in the hall.

'Not in the office? How? Your man was watching the only exit, wasn't he? There WAS no other way out, was there? How did this seemingly foolproof arrest come up empty? Where IS Ricardo Miranda?" Ironside thundered. "All right, Carl, give me the details," he said, sighing, a little more calmly.

"I had Phillips in the hall and the rest of us nearby, watching other areas as inconspicuously as we could, but ready to go. Just before one, I and three others entered the office. The door was locked, so we kicked it in. He simply wasn't there. We searched the office, then the building. No dice. I don't know how he got past us, but I know that he isn't here. Word on the street was that he was dumping drugs for next to nothing this morning, but that the wad of bills he kept rolling the new money into could have been several grand." Carl finished and waited. When the chief didn't say anything, he continued.

"Around 12:30, a janitor used his keys to enter the office. He was in for a few minutes, came out, and went to the custodial closet for some trash bags, went back in with the bags, and then came out for the last time at about 12:40 or so," Carl said and paused.

"Well? Was his cart checked or did Detective Phillips simply open the door for the man and let him through?" the chief asked. Are you kidding me? he thought. One of the most important arrests of the year in jeopardy because a detective was fixated on the planned chain of events.

"Phillips says that the janitor went to other offices before pushing the cart right by him and taking the regular elevator instead of the service elevator. He examined the cart without really searching it, but neither the janitor's behavior nor the cart seemed suspicious," Carl explained, uncomfortably, again glaring at Phillips. He had made sure the detective could hear the conversation.

"Do they seem suspicious now, Lieutenant Reese?" Carl would have preferred that Ironside shout, but his voice was carefully controlled.

"Of course, sir. We have found the janitor and they are bringing him to me to question. We've put an APB out on Ricardo Miranda. We're focusing on the piers, especially those with ships with Hispanic registry. Are you coming here, chief?" Carl asked. He wasn't sure what to hope for, and he was sure that the chief would resent delaying his interrogation of the older brother to help come and clean up what ultimately was Carl's mess. Ironside paused for a moment before replying.

"No, Carl. I'll work the case from Carlos' end, and you keep the lead on Ricardo. And Carl," the chief paused

Yeah, chief?" Carl replied.

"Carlos Miranda is a calculated criminal who lets others do his dirty work. Ricardo is an armed, panicked fugitive who is capable of doing his own. I very much want him alive, but I want no more police or civilian casualties in this case. Be careful."

"Got it, chief. He won't get by me again," Carl declared. If I can find him, he thought. And with that thought, the janitor, Antonio Sandoval, arrived. Carl sighed and turned his attention to the old man in the dirty coveralls. This guy better have what I need, he thought

"Antonio Sandoval," he began. The old man listened intently. "Do you mind answering some questions?"

"Cuestions? Cuestiones?" he stammered He looked around nervously.

"Yes." The old man did not answer. Carl took his silence as assent, and pulled out a photo of Ricardo Miranda. "Do you know this man?" he continued.

"No comprendo, señor, no hablo inglés. No entiendo." Carl felt like he might explode. No English. Great, just great. A torrent of words that he was too professional to say rushed through his mind. Hey, chief, he thought, more good news.

"Anybody here speak Spanish?" Carl shouted, a bit more loudly than he intended. A few did, none particularly well, but there was a Hispanic kid in uniform downstairs as part of the team. Carl called for him to be sent up and waited.

Antonio Sandoval was a wise old rooster. He spoke enough English to do his job, barely, but his English had improved some. He diligently hid his progress. It was amazing what these yanquis said when they thought you couldn't understand. What he heard, learned, observed, he filed away in his mind and awaited an opportunity that might improve his circumstances.

The young patron today had provided just such an opportunity. The old man knew that he might get caught taking Ricardo out with the trash. He also knew that he could plead that the younger man had threatened him. If somehow he did manage to get the boy to the dumpster unnoticed, he would obviously be the only explanation for his escape.

There were very good reasons for helping the young patron, fear, threats, and so forth, but if they found the money on him, there was only greed and they would know that he had been a willing participant. They had a word for it which he could not recall, but it was a crime. So he hid the money and went back to work as though nothing had happened, knowing that the summons would come. It did.

Carl approached the young officer emerging from the elevator. The young man was in his early twenties, smallish, slim, and handsome, with olive skin, deep brown eyes and neatly cut straight black hair. Licking his lips and glancing at the detectives, he walked up to the lieutenant.

"Officer Steve Méndez, Lieutenant," the officer said, coughing a little.

"Thank you for coming, Officer Méndez. I know it's a little unusual, but we need some answers from this man and he doesn't understand the questions. Can you help us?" Carl asked.

"Yes, sir, I think so," Méndez replied. He turned his attention to the old man, small, wrinkled, balding, but strong from a lifetime of hard work. Was there a faint gleam of defiance in his gaze? Hard to tell.

"Buenas tardes, señor, me llamo Officer Méndez. Necesito preguntarle a Ud. unas preguntas sobre la desaparencia de éste hombre." He showed the old man the picture. "Lo conoce? Do you know him?" The man nodded. Carl watched the exchange closely.

Lt. Reese gave the young man the questions he wanted to ask. The janitor's answers were short, at times gestures only. At first, he denied knowing anything about Ricardo's escape, but the young man pressed with Carl's guidance, telling him that the cart was the only possible way for Miranda to leave the office. Antonio began to squirm, then sweat lightly. Finally he burst out, "Por favor, señor, tenía que hacerlo. El patroncito iba a matarme y a todos en la oficina. Lo tenía que hacer!"

Méndez relayed the information to Carl, who nodded slowly, staring at Antonio, sizing him up. So Carlos had threatened to kill the old man and everyone in the office that they entered. Knowing what he knew of the Mirandas, the old man was probably telling the truth.

"All right, Méndez, find out exactly where he took him and when. Ask him why, once Ricardo was gone, he did not let us know what had happened." The young man spoke softly to the janitor, who this time ended his answer with what sounded like a plea.

"Well?" Carl demanded.

"He took him to the dumpster out back and Ricardo climbed in. He has no idea when he came out or which way he went. He didn't come to us because he thought Ricardo might be hanging around waiting to make good on his threat, and also because he had threatened his family as well."

"Do you believe him?"

"Do you, sir?" the young officer countered. Kid had a backbone. This one was worth watching.

"What he says is certainly believable, and until we catch Ricardo, there is no way to know. Even then, I would believe him before Ricardo. Thank you, officer, you've been a big help," Carl said."Tell him he can go, but to stick around. We may need more information from him later."


End file.
